Elevators

I was waiting for an elevator in Patterson Office Tower again. A group of people was milling about, some just standing there. A buzz of conversation from the Intermezzo café drifted down. You could hear it, but just barely over the chattering of conversations in the hallway between the elevators. There were a couple of what looked like professors standing there having a conversation in Spanish. I tried not to eavesdrop, but when people speak in a language I have studied, I just have to listen in and see how much I could understand.

In POT you can hear the elevators rushing up and down in the shaft. They make a metallic whooshing sort of noise that always makes you a little nervous when you’re standing at the bottom waiting to go up. Sometimes you can hear the bell ding from the 2^nd floor or the basement if you’re standing close enough. If you do hear it, you scoot a little closer to the door, disregarding the fact that people are going to have to come off before you can get on, so that you can be one of the ones that makes it on this elevator. If you’re only going a couple of floors up, you’ll take the stairs. Today they weren’t an option for me-I was going to meet with my advisor in the English department on the thirteenth floor to discuss my next semester’s schedule.

I’m usually a fairly patient person, but I was starting to get impatient when an elevator finally arrived. People hurried to get on because there were so many people waiting for the elevator. By the time I made it there, the elevator was full. I was left standing in the corridor between the elevators along with another guy. He was wearing the usual jeans, T-shirt, tennis shoes, and a UK cap. He had a green version of the backpack that I have. He looked vaguely familiar, but I am usually reluctant to say anything to people I only vaguely recognize. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked friendly enough. I shifted my backpack and decided to go ahead and start a conversation anyway.

"These elevators take forever, don’t they?"

He looked sort of startled-people waiting for those elevators don’t usually talk to each other unless they know one another. It’s worse when you get on the elevators. If you get on with someone you know, the two of you talk as quietly as you can so nobody can hear you. And if you get on by yourself, you try to act as nonchalantly as possible so that the people that are having a discussion don’t think that you’re trying to listen in on their private conversation.

"Yeah, they do. But I hate coming down on them more than anything. If you’re on the 20^th floor later on in the day, there’s virtually nobody in the building and the elevators don’t stop until you hit the first floor again." He responded.

"It’s almost better than a ride at Kings’ Island," I cracked.

We both grinned a little, a little more at ease. We were still the only ones in the hallway when the elevator finally did arrive.

"Looks like our chariot has arrived," he said, motioning me on before him.

I stepped into the elevator with this vaguely familiar guy right behind me. He got on next to the button panel and raised his eyebrows at me, asking which floor I was going to.

"Thirteen." I answered.

"That’s where I’m going, too. You know, you look familiar. Have we had a class together before?" He asked.

"That’s what I thought, too. Are you English major? Maybe you were in my 221 class? That was one of those ones that I never talked to my classmates in."

"Who did you have? I had Smith."

"Yeah, I had Smith. At eight in the morning."

"That’s when I had the class too. It was stupid to take it that early. I was late to class so many times because I overslept."

"I skipped class so many times I couldn’t keep count. I was so glad that he didn’t take attendance. I never would have passed the class. What was your name, by the way? I don’t think I knew anybody’s name in that class." I smiled, trying not to offend him by not remembering his name.

"My name’s Tom. What’s yours? I hate it when I recognize someone, but don’t remember their name. I don’t mind when people ask me when they’ve forgotten, but some people do get offended." He smiled back at me.

"My name’s Margaret Ann."

The elevator came to our floor and the bell sounded. The doors slid open and we waited a couple of seconds while the elevator stopped bouncing, then stepped off.

"Well, I’m glad I ran in to you Margaret Ann. Will you be waiting for an elevator again tomorrow?"

"No. I just came to talk to my advisor today." I answered.

"Well, can I have your phone number then, so I can give you a call?"

"OK." I hesitated.

Tom was already reaching into his backpack for a pen. He handed it to me and then stretched out his hand, palm up. I braced his hand with my left hand, his hair tickling my palm, and wrote my phone number after several false starts with the ball point pen.

He took his pen back, "I’ll give you a call."

"OK then. I’ll see you later."

"Bye."

My phone didn’t ring for three days. And when it did, it was my mother asking why I hadn’t called home for a while. I guess that’s what you get when you start a conversation in an elevator.